


Deconstructed

by Hobbitrocious



Series: The Bruschetta Universe (Don't Ask) [4]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: C-PTSD Sherlock, Childhood Trauma, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, HSP (Highly Sensitive Person), Historical References, Holmes Brothers' Childhood, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, M/M, Pre-Slash, Psychoanalysis, Sibling Rivalry, Unhealthy Empath Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-14
Updated: 2015-05-14
Packaged: 2018-03-30 14:23:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3940147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hobbitrocious/pseuds/Hobbitrocious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Watson runs into one doctor Sigmund Freud at a regular haunt of his and cannot believe his luck. Observing a complimentary session with Holmes shows Watson the vulnerable side of the detective that, like everyone else, Watson completely overlooked.</p><p>In a nutshell, exactly what it sounds like: Holmes' neuroses scrutinised under a Freudian-ish lens. But with hurt/comfort vibes.</p><p>Can be read as slightly AU bookverse or any of the other Victorian verses. Oneshot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Deconstructed

**Author's Note:**

> This is another older story (November 2010) that turned out to be a precursor to The Bruschetta Universe series. Much of this backstory is duplicated in "Patching Up the Loom That is the Past". This fic is like the tip of the iceberg that 'Loom' is shaping up to be.
> 
> As I said in 'Loom', I know full well what the first page of "The Greek interpreter" states and the backstory presented here is my own play on circumstances. A bit of a "what if it really went this way but the end result was canon".
> 
> Can be read as slightly AU bookverse or any of the other Victorian verses. I mostly had Ritchieverse in mind at the time.

Watson runs into one doctor Sigmund Freud at a regular haunt of his and cannot believe his luck. He and Holmes study whatever new research of his they can find, and Watson is honoured to hear that Freud knows of their exploits as well. Following introductions fraught with praise and some shows of humility on both sides, it is somehow arranged that Docteur Freud schedules a complimentary consultation for Watson's good friend and flatmate, the famous Sherlock Holmes. Watson, in the interest of science, is permitted by psychoanalycist and patient to observe. He is delighted.

Freud even waives his fee when Holmes manages to deduce, without being asked, that his misplaced spectacles are perched on the second shelf of the bookcase and holding a place between the pages of his revised journal papers.

 

Holmes supposes his troubles largely began around Mycroft's birth.

Never mind that Mycroft became the superior intellect their mother prevented Sherlock from being. The root of the more publicly renowned Holmes's troubles can be traced to the moment he first saw his brother, freshly washed and asleep, in his mother's arms. 

Young Sherlock melted at the sight of the round little face, admitted perhaps he fancied having a sibling after all. To this day, Mycroft probably could not deduce to just what depth Sherlock's hatred for him extends.

Unlike his childhood self, Holmes is thin as a rail. His mother overfed him.

His father kept to himself after a long day of work. Years enough of that, and the man mattered little to Sherlock. 

The Austrian doctor jots down a note. Though upside-down, Holmes catches the phrase "lacking paternal influence" before the notebook is tilted up too far to read.

The Holmes of today finds himself happily addicted to all manner of substance. Though Freud agrees cocaine has its benefits, he disparages Holmes at the mention of how gluttonously he binges in it.  
They agree on the reason for it; Holmes rarely experienced instant gratification as a child; he was made to wait for everything, assuming the outings or items promised to him were eventually seen to after his smaller, more demanding brother was appeased.

Sherlock, at first, understood that a child of three years needed not the care that an infant did, and became admirably self-sufficient to free his parents' time to care for their younger son. Logic dictated that, being of identical heritage, Mycroft's needs would reduce by the time he was Sherlock's age. His parents should also, by then, have overcome the novelty of a new child and been ready to devote more attention to Sherlock again.

By the time Mycroft turned two, and Sherlock five, deductions dissolved and became frustrations. Madame Holmes scolded Sherlock for climbing into Mycroft's empty crib and gnawing on the toys. A dummy nipple stashed in the most unlikely of places was still found, and Sherlock punished for his vindictive act of thievery. One after another, all of Sherlock's mimicry and efforts to be as endearing as his brother failed. Mum was especially annoyed when her older son deliberately babbled in baby speak when she knew he was perfectly capable of impeccable, adult enunciation. She prided herself on his advanced intelligence, which was the only thing Sherlock felt he held above the little demon that had filled his place with his parents.

When Mycroft was twelve and Sherlock fifteen, that last thread of dignity was snipped. Mycroft's studies showed noted improvement, and his knowledge suddenly seemed to rival Sherlock's own. If Sherlock was a genius, Mycroft seemed omniscient.

The next few years were tumultuous. Between the loss of his usefulness and a rapid puberty pulling his emotions this way and that, Holmes fell into his first extreme Dark Mood. It lasted throughout his teen years, exacerbated by his mother's remedies procured by specialists of the day, who proclaimed that new chemicals and herb concoctions could have positive effects on the mind.

Holmes fought it every step of the way, periods when given sedatives notwithstanding. His blind opposition led to more forceful tactics from his caregivers. More force led to his increased rebellion, led to yet stronger measures.

Whether or not it is true, Holmes is convinced the dodgy pills and brews he has been made to swallow are responsible for the sustained gap between his and Mycroft's IQs. A veritable zombie is how he describes himself whilst under treatment by his mother's physicians. A body walking as though alive, but with no brain to speak of.

By seventeen, Mycroft is no more the pudgy gnome. He towers at least a head above Sherlock. His love of food ensures that he is still heavy, and he is more than able to overpower his older brother, who has all but wasted away in his bedroom among his books. On the rare occasions Sherlock crawls from his room to take tea or wander about the house, he and Mycroft inevitably butt heads. The sole time Mycroft is moved to blows, Sherlock's fragile image of remaining the heartier, more capable firstborn is dashed totally. He goes down in one hit, and lies sobbing beneath Mycroft's weight until their mother's frightened shout inquiring about the noise has them quickly separating. Or, rather, Mycroft standing up and Holmes stumbling, tripping over himself to rush back into his dark, musty pit of a bedroom.

Sherlock's mind is brilliant. His memory is first-rate and, coupled with the mountainous texts he practically inhales, makes him one of Britain's most formidable minds. But, for all his work, there is a flaw.

Contrary to what Holmes believes possible, Mycroft still outshines him.

In adulthood, the strain becomes worse. Mycroft is accepted - no, _begged_ \- to join an elite, secret force deep within Her Majesty's government. After a less than average course of classes at university, Sherlock makes a hobby out of busting robbers and pickpockets with his second-rate skills in observation. 

Holmes finds unfathomable reprieve when he is led to Watson and can afford to rent rooms at Baker Street. The library of his family home was beginning to look like a good place to build a gallows. With the praise of a decorated man accustomed to combat, then the sudden notoriety from Watson's reading audience, Holmes finally feels a little bit as though he is wanted. He knows his kind of skill is needed, essential, but his efforts are only a shadow of his brother's capabilities.

It is the vain, hungry greed for attention that spurs him on. It fuels his desire to expand his research and knowledge until it is unsurpassable (save for one man) that he is confident enough to take on prestigious and difficult cases without second thought. 

He needs approval more than he needs food. It is his sustenance. After so many years of being told he could not leave the dining table without a clean plate to show, self starvation is a joyous luxury.

As Holmes's voice fills the room, calm and even while recounting his past and speculating along with doctor Freud, Watson remains quiet in his seat. He is out of Holmes' sight, tucked away in the corner but able to hear every word. For some reason, Watson feels tears pricking at his eyes as he listens. He blinks to quash them and refreshes his focus on the discussion before him.

Holmes speaks softer now, retelling moments from recent years in such detail and precision that he might have lived them yesterday. Watson's memory is jogged in hearing them. It startles him to discover how hard Holmes's narrative pulls at his heart - never before has Watson realised just how meaningful every word of praise, every approving smile and nod, has been to the brash detective. Watson, of all people, has fallen in with others and mistaken Holmes's matter-of-fact attitude for confidence. It is all he can do now to sit and berate himself in silence and vow to treat Holmes with greater sensitivity in the future.

Sigmund apologises for cutting Holmes's session short, but he has other patients who have scheduled their appointments well in advance. He cannot keep them waiting.

On the walk home from the hotel, Holmes pre-empts any and all of Watson's questions with a subdued, "Let's not speak just yet," and they exchange not a word between The Grand and Baker Street.

The door to the hall has barely swung shut before Holmes is diving for his Morocco case, his hat and coat not even off.

For the first time, Watson does not attempt to stop him with words or reason or force. He crosses into Holmes's room and wraps a hand gently around his wrist. Watson's other hand he raises to pet down the stubble on Holmes's cheek in a repetitive, soothing motion. 

The syringe clatters to the floorboards, rolls beneath the bed. Holmes's dark eyes are wide, staring questioningly - or perhaps lost - into Watson's.

Early on in his session with Freud, Holmes made some allusion to a peculiar inability to _feel_ affectionate contact. He had traced it back to one night, when he was eight years of age, when he had angered his mother so in the afternoon that she was still cross with him when she put her boys down for bed in their shared nursery. Mycroft received a hug and the customary goodnight poem that night. Sherlock didn't, and his mother explained - curtly - that she was still too angry with him to say goodnight. Holmes had spent a good couple of hours trying to convince himself that his pillow was Mrs. Holmes, and that she had forgiven him and was whispering loving nothings in his ear as he hugged her. It hadn't worked, and the maid roused, grumpily, to check in on him when he was at the end of his rope and threw the indifferent pillow into the door.

Watson hugs Holmes, knowing the man is likely to be falling numb, shutting down, thanks to the long-ago experience. It is not something Holmes does of his own accord. His emotions seem to evaporate on their own, as if triggered. like a piece of clockwork machinery. Watson understands now how Holmes can appear so heartless and cold; No one has taken the time to breathe warmth into him.

They are still in their outdoor clothing as Watson takes the lead and eases Holmes to his bed. 

Watson aches to give Holmes the love and attention he was deprived of. He wants Holmes to be able to respond to his touch without the brawling master's skill, without the defensive reflexes that seem to be all his body knows.

Watson will lie here and hold Holmes until he is able to feel Watson's embrace.

Holmes is strangely, yet predictably, accepting of this arrangement. When night falls, their coats negate the need to pull the bedcovers over them.

Sometime, in the wee, dark hours of the morn, Watson feels warm, wet tears fill his palm where it lies between Holmes's temple and the sheets.

He tugs Holmes closer, wraps his arm around tighter, knowing.

Knowing this is the very beginning of getting Holmes to let Watson love him.


End file.
